


The Scorpio Contract

by Lady_Paper_Writerson



Series: Path of the (Un)Righteous [2]
Category: DCU (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Angst, Family Dynamics, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Rape/Non-con Elements, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-08
Updated: 2020-04-21
Packaged: 2020-08-11 17:35:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20157451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Paper_Writerson/pseuds/Lady_Paper_Writerson
Summary: It is one tricky mission. That's a fact....It's not every day that an old 'friend' is looking to hire, though.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone!~
> 
> A sequel to Bathed in Blood is finally here. ^_^ This story takes place about five months later, in case anyone's wondering.
> 
> Same warning as in the previous one; this is an ABO story, with elements and themes that usually come with it. Please, consider this your warning. I hope you guys enjoy!

Breaks between jobs had never been exactly a delight. Time off a mission equals time doing nothing. And all this free time inevitably leads to _thinking_. To automatic, unwanted retrospections.

Slade pours himself another glass of scotch, eye lazily darting outside, beyond the enormous glass of the living room window in front of him. Down below, as far as the eye can see, the tremendous, wild waves of the Pacific devour all the steep rocks of the cliffs with prolific ferocity. The sun dipped long ago, and now everything swims into the many different, cool shades of darker blue. It’s a sharp, rough, dangerous picture.

It calms him down.

The notification sound coming from the laptop over the coffee table has him grimacing. _Of course_ it had to come around the very moment a certain serenity threatened crawling its way into his chest.

He idly walks back there and glances down at the screen. The notification of the incoming contract awaits, patiently. Just out of spite, he’s tempted to leave it lingering there, but then he notices the very first, single visible word of the preview.

_Slade,_

_[…]_

It gets him almost as agitated as if, say, Batman had just walked into the room. Not only that, but as soon as he puts the glass down, takes a seat and glances at the subject line, one single word’s looking back at him, and there comes another extremely rare feeling that he _despises_. And, as always, it’s accompanied by a river of ice melting down his spine.

_‘Scorpio’_

He takes in a breath, fingers rubbing at his jaw, chest unpleasantly vacant and mind occupied by screams and gunpowder and a ton of blood.

He opens the incoming, knowing fully well that this _isn’t_ going to be a fun ride.

**Slade,**

**You and I have never gotten along, but I hope that, for the first time, we might end up agreeing on something.**

**Three targets, all alphas, all male. Highly trained. Files attached. I require immediate extermination within 72 hours from the moment of the affirmation. If you need more details, I am open to a meeting. I expect that you’ll know how to contact me.**

**Evaluate the targets and name a price. Any price.**

** _ Silver Knight _ **

He has his phone in hand a second after he’s done reading and waits for an annoyingly long amount of time before the growl comes from the other side of the line.

_“It’s three thirty in the morning.”_

“Where I am it’s eight thirty, afternoon. Get up, focus.”

Bill exhales the longest sigh ever, and Slade hears shuffling sounds, as well as a click that he guesses is the switch of the bedside lamp. _“Better be good, you prick.”_

“Guess who sent me a contract.”

_“Oh, great, now I have to guess, too? What is that, the new fun thing we’re doing this month?”_

“It’s signed ‘Silver Knight’. Ring any bells?”

_“Silver Knight? Who the hell is…”?_ There’s a pause, which Slade supposes equals to a fair moment of clarity, before Billy lets out a surprised exclamation. _“Oh my god, Adeline’s boyfriend? From the Air Force?”_

Slade snorts, evidently annoyed. “He _wasn’t_…”

Billy chuckles. _“Yeah, alright, flirt thing, whatever… you sure it’s him? Could be someone trying to get your attention.”_

“He refers to me by name.”

When Billy speaks again, his tone isn’t as amused anymore. _“How does he know it's you?__ He sent the contract…”_

“To Deathstroke. And he calls me _Slade,_ first thing. Get in, read it."

He sounds much livelier now. _“Give me a second." _

There’s more shuffling, and then the tapping of footsteps. Slade waits, not as patiently as he’d like to claim. He takes the time to open the files accompanying the message. They’re zipped, each one containing at least five smaller ones. He settles for the front pages, to get a general idea on what he’d have to get his hands on, in case he accepted.

Ignacio Perez, Colombian. Light brown skin, shaved head, a thin mustache, face stained with various faint scars, and a pair of cold, dark eyes. Bulky, all muscle, not much height. 42, at the time.

Frederick Leroy, Irish-American. Blond and quite tall (6'5", his file suggests). Sharp lines and narrow eyes, a washed-out shade of the lightest blue, approaching to grey. Age 37.

Maxwell Schwarz, a German. This one looked way younger than his thirty years of age, his face almost disturbingly smooth and flawless. Fair, perfect skin, without a single line. Yellow hair, thoroughly combed back. The eyes were… empty, drained of any emotion, despite the pretty shade of blue. Slade has encountered such eyes many times before, in various psychopaths.

_“Scorpio,”_ Billy’s voice comes quietly, an uncomfortable drawl after what seems like an hour later.

Slade, eyebrows knitted, gives out a low, affirmative growl.

There’s a hesitant humming in return. _“Could be a coincidence.”_

“Could be,” he says sternly, even though it’s purely evident that neither of them believes so.

_“Well, he clearly knows… a lot, already. But still, every single word in here raises a thousand questions. I don’t know what to tell you. This looks… far too straight-forward, yet… far too vague. Far too good, yet far too bad. All at the same time.”_

Slade couldn’t have described it better.

_“Why don’t you ask him?”_ Billy suggests. _“Meet him. Clear things out. He offered it himself, after all.”_

He doesn’t answer, and Billy sighs.

_“Listen… I do realize that if you’ve already decided something, this will fall on deaf ears, but I’m going to say it anyway. Facts are, you dislike this person -if it’s really him- and, unfortunately… you **know** Scorpio. Slade; it’s important not to make any rush moves.”_

* * *

_Joseph’s sitting at the stairs of the porch, on his own, lazily playing catch with a basketball ball. When he sees the car, he immediately stands up and approaches the passage to the garage, where Slade eventually parks._

_As soon as he jumps out and closes the door behind him, he notices the deep frown on his son’s face. “Well,” he says, running his fingers through golden curls “there goes the last one that was somewhat happy every time I got back.”_

_“Hi, pop,” the boy says, leaning towards him, still hilariously serious. “Sorry. I am **very** upset.”_

_Slade chokes back a laugh, successfully pretending that such an expression on a nine-year-old isn’t one of the funniest things ever. “I can tell,” he says, heading to the trunk to get his bag. “What’s up? Fight with your brother?”_

_Joey follows behind him. “This guy is here. **Again**.”_

_Slade takes the bag and closes the lid of the trunk, glancing at the unfamiliar, fancy car parked in front of the house. He’d noticed it from afar, but didn’t really dwell on it. Thought it probably belonged to a neighbor. “What guy?”_

_“That John Lawrence guy.”_

_He stops moving, clenching his teeth. “John Lawrence?”_

_Joey nods, vividly, still pouting. “He says he’s yours and mum’s friend from the army.”_

_Slade looks at _ _the house, face blank. “Your mother’s friend,” he growls. “Not mine.”_

_“Ha!” Joey exclaims in triumph. “I knew it! I told Grant you wouldn’t like him! And, dad? I don’t like him either!”_

_Slade hums. “You said ‘again’? When was he here before?”_

_“Just yesterday, and a few days before that. He helped mum with the garage door, it got wrecked again during the storm last week. And now this Mister Perfect guy comes for coffee,” he huffs out. “I don’t know what mom and Grant like so much about him.”_

_Slade feels both his nerves and his inner alpha chords boiling. “Alright, then,” he drawls, heading for the porch. “Let’s go say hello.”_

_Behind him, Joey groans miserably. “I've already said hello,” he protests. “Can I just stay here?”_

_“Yeah, whatever. In the yard, don’t go out in the street,” Slade directs, briefly glancing over his shoulder._

_Once he’s in the house he dumps the bag at the end of the hall and immediately heads for the kitchen, which is exactly where those bright, vivid voices and laughs come from (along with the infuriating scent of another alpha in his own home). Grant, in particular, sounds more excited than he’s heard him in years._

_“… mum, did you know that? This is awesome! How do you get your nickname, then?”_

_“The others stick it to you, basically, over something you do, or, if you’re really unlucky, over something you remind them of,” a fine, deep voice comes, and Slade can detect the smile in it even before he gets in and gets the visual evidence as well._

_“How did you get yours?”_

_“Well, on my first year after training…”_

_He steps inside, and all voices die away._

_Adeline is the only one standing. She’s leaning back against the counter by the sink, a steaming cup in her hands. Grant and Lawrence are seated in two of the chairs around the table, one next to the other. Another cup, half empty, stands waiting in front of the alpha, who’s casually resting against the back of his chair._

_It irks him heavily, red flags signaling in his mind, but despite that, he forces a smile on his face. “Hello there, family,” he greets. “John.”_

_“I… hi!” Adeline straightens her back, still in surprise, and takes two steps towards him. “I thought you said tomorrow evening!”_

_Slade crosses the rest of the distance between them. He puts a hand at the small of her back, a little more possessive than needed, maybe, and presses a kiss at her forehead. “Surprise, I guess.”_

_He glances at Grant, who hasn’t said a word. His eldest just sits there, completely still and now visibly tensed, arms folded against his chest and fingernails digging at the sleeves. He's frowning with all the teenage intensity Joey isn’t capable of perfecting just yet. “Grant?” he says, slightly lifting an eyebrow._

_Grant takes a short breath. “What?” he retorts, sharply._

_Slade’s only barely fighting back an angry growl. Adeline, seemingly calm, but actually on put, looks at him steadily, giving him a carnivorous don’t-you-dare-make-a-scene gaze._

_Johnny-boy gets up, tall like him, but leaner, and lacking muscle. Elegant, in his casual, yet fancy outfit. Time had stood quite generous with him, turning the lines drawn upon his tanned face, mostly around the corners of his eyes, into further charm. His hair’s still rich, well-groomed and as black as coil. The warm, dark brown eyes have lost neither their glow nor their wit. He’s still baring that slightly crooked smile, too._

_“How have you been, Slade?” he greets, extending his hand for a handshake._

_Slade debates with himself for a second, dangerously flirting with the idea of going fully petty, but eventually, he reaches out and takes his hand. “You know. Work.”_

_“Oh, do I know!” he laughs. “What you’re doing out there is… wow. Every report coming in has everyone up high gasping in awe. Seriously kick-ass job, Slade.”_

_Slade says nothing, and Adeline hurries to break the silence. “John thinks about retiring and starting his own business.”_

_“How interesting,” Slade says, blatantly uninterested._

_“Yeah, you know how it goes after forty, especially on Air. Even if all reflexes still work perfectly, you can’t help but start thinking ‘well, what if in the next FAA review something isn’t right?”_

_"I wouldn’t know about that,” Slade smirks maliciously. “I’ll take your word for it.”_

_“Right, of course,” John laughs, raising his hands. “Not all of us are super soldiers… anyway. Founding a private military firm is an idea I’m seriously flirting with, at the moment.”_

_“I see. And… if you’re not thinking about hiring my son in that thing, of course, what exactly are you doing here?”_

_John’s raising an eyebrow, his pleasant mood instantly degrading, and Adeline, having gone completely rigid, takes it upon herself. “We came across each other last week, when I visited the headquarters downtown, so we stood to catch up. John was kind enough to help with the garage door…”_

_Slade chuckles. "_ _Sure he was.”_

_He doesn’t miss the brief, cold spark of spite passing through Mr. Perfect’s eyes -or the murderous one crossing Adeline’s. Grant sits up uncomfortably, in a sudden agony that almost surprises Slade, as he’s unable to comprehend the reason behind it._

_“It’s… getting kind of late,” John suggests calmly, slowly dragging his jacket from the back of his chair. “I should probably take off.”_

_“You figure?” Slade politely agrees._

_Grant stands up and approaches John. “We’re still going to the base to see the air fighters tomorrow… Right?”_

_He’s actually looking at Slade when he speaks the last word, and oh, yes, there’s the reason behind the distress. His son's childhood love of anything flying -Slade doesn't even recall where does this come from. _ _Grant doesn’t speak, but his face pleads with him. **Please, don’t ruin this. Please, let me have this.**_

_John also exchanges a look with him and takes the message. He grits his teeth momentarily, but his face is more relaxed when he turns to Grant. One hand shoots up to squeeze at his shoulder, and Slade vaguely thinks that the stand where the kitchen knives lie is right behind him. He might as well grab one and chop down that hand from its root._

_“We’ll definitely do this… some time,” John tells Grant with a soft voice._

_The devastation spreading over his son’s face at the statement immediately turns into pure fury when he glances at him. He doesn’t say a single word after that. He just turns his back to all three of them and walks out the kitchen door, to the backyard, and Slade has a brief glimpse of him jumping over the fence and disappearing._

_John takes a breath, with a short shake of his head. “I guess I’ll… see you around, Addie.”_

_“Yeah,” she says calmly. “See you, John.”_

_The man leaves the room. Soon after comes the sound of the front door opening and closing again._

_They sit there, in silence. Adeline’s intently starring at the direction where Grant had taken off to. Slade moves first, taking the cup from the table and heading beside her, to the sink. He lets the water run._

_“Ruined your fun?” he blurts out, unable to help himself._

_She blinks at him, once, and then outright punches him._

* * *

When Slade arrives, the man’s already there, waiting for him. The black Alpha Romeo he gets out of is so perfectly polished that it’s almost glowing from afar, in the middle of the night. He snorts quietly to himself, crossing the dock, but as they approach each other, the shadows slowly retreating… he can’t say _this_ doesn’t come as a surprise.

He’s as tall and confident as Slade recalls from the last time they’d met, everything about him just oozing elegance and class. He has to reluctantly admit that he _does_ look… oddly good for a common man at his fifty-sixth year on this earth (which is a bummer; pettily enough, Slade hoped to gaze at a relic). The age shows mostly around the eyes, and the now grey hair at the sides of his head.

However, unexpected as it is, this isn’t the source of the surprise.

There’s a massive scar carving his entire face, forehead to jaw. It’s old by now, and had clearly been thoroughly taken care of (by the best of doctors and plastic surgeons, Slade guesses), but the outcome’s still profoundly visible. There are also evidences of two or three more scars, not quite as deep or serious.

“Sixteen, years, isn’t it?” John says, a faint smile on his lips.

Slade nods, and takes off his mask. It’s professional courtesy, at this point.

“Wow,” John laughs softly. “You _do _look annoyingly younger than you actually are.”

“So I’ve been told.” A pause. “More scars.”

John’s smile widens, not nearly as warm and kind as years ago, in front of Adeline and his damn kids. “Less _eyes_.”

Slade shrugs. Fair enough. At least he’s _honest_. For his shake, he better keeps this up. “Need I ask?”

John’s turn to shrug. “It’s part of my job to know about the most famous assassins and sellswords around. I run my own military company now, as I’m sure you know.”

“H.I.V.E. Yes. Impressive.”

“Thank you,” he tilts his head, taking hands off the coat’s pockets and crossing arms over his chest. “What else would you like to know?”

The fact that doesn’t ask about Adeline or the kids makes it obvious that he knows about that too, which Slade finds only too annoying, since this means he can’t offer any poisonous lines. “Why me?” is the only thing he can proceed with now. “Why not one of the two thousand and forty-two highly trained, skilled mercenaries working under you all around the globe?”

John doesn’t nearly lose his nerve. “Because, for one, I don’t want my name officially or unofficially appearing anywhere _near_ their deranged organization. And because those three guys are… really, _really_ good… and I really, _really_ want them gone. You’re the _best_. The least possible to fail.”

Slade hums. “Flattered. And what is your deal with Scorpio?”

John’s face spasms for a moment. “My deal?”

Slade smirks coldly. “You can’t be the only one _knowing_ things, right? If I’m not mistaken -and frankly, I don’t think I am… Over the past five years, you’ve had your ‘employees’ raiding Scorpio’s headquarters, from Gotham, to Tokyo, to Qurac. They get in, they… _work_… then clear out every single evidence of them ever having been there. All of Scorpio’s big heads have been proclaimed mysteriously dead. Their guys have been decimated; all members crippled.”

John remains calm during all of this, but he’s clearly… not amused.

“I’ll give it to you,” Slade continues, “neat job right there. Stealthy. If someone wasn’t actually looking for it, they’d never know a thing. They’d never find out that Scorpio, over the past few years, has been declined from the Terrorism Queen to simply being a desperate shithole, barely surviving. And, as much as it personally delights me, I can’t help but notice that this is… what was the word you used in your message? Ah, yes; _extermination_.”

John has one single word in return. “Competition.”

Slade tuts. “Bullshit. You run a solid, trustworthy business. _They_ are savage terrorists-for-hire. No way they ever had a chance on taking away a client from your firm. It’s not a matter of competition, or even rivalry. You’ve been hunting them down.”

John simply stares at him. “Do you always interrogate your clients like that?”

“No. Not all jobs are as suspicious. Let’s be honest here. The reason why you’ve decided to spend money on me isn’t that I’m the best -which I am, of course. It’s that you knew Scorpio would get my attention."

“You are… not mistaken,” John reluctantly admits. “I _did_ hope you’d take this seriously.”

Slade stays silent, making it clear that he expects more. John takes a short breath.

“I was more sorry to hear about Grant than you can ever…”

“Not related to what I’m asking you,” Slade sharply interrupts.

John exhales, looking away, at the sea. “In a certain way, it is.”

When their gazes cross again, the man’s face is expressionless, eyes tired and drained.

“You’re not the only one that’s lost someone to them.”

The numbness that follows is far too familiar, far too real, and impossible to ignore. What’s so frustrating about it is that, as far as he can tell, the man's being honest, and he now must accept the fact that this feeling’s coming back to him caused by _this_ particular individual. It’s irritating, really.

“Those three,” John says, “even though they never managed to claw themselves to the higher ranks back in the organization’s better days -far too unstable even for Scorpio’s standards, if you can believe that- have now become, through an insane amount of blood, I might add, the last remaining heads of this fallen empire.”

Slade kind of hates it how the guy makes everything sound so very appealing

“I want them gone for good,” he declares, “and I’ll have that, Slade. I’ll rip them out root and stem. I swore that, five years ago. Are you in, or am I looking for someone else?”

He internally curses himself, because he’s already made his decision, and he has the unpleasant sense he’s going to regret this. “A million. For all three of them.”

“You got it,” John instantly agrees, “but how so? You could have asked for so much more.”

“It’s fair. No need to overprice you. I’ve read their files. They shouldn’t be hard to get.”

John gives a small nod of respect. “In that case, I guess I should offer an update. Tomorrow night, all three of them will be in Blüdhaven. I’d suggest it’s a good opportunity to get all of them at once.”

Slade offers a humming sound, his mind already working on the details.

Blüdhaven, then. Maybe something good will come out of it after all.

“You want it painful?”

John makes a gesture of indifference. “No connection to me. That’s all I require. Arrange everything else to your satisfaction.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. :) Hope you enjoy this! XD
> 
> Fair warning: There Will Be Blood further down in the story. And it's starting right now.

It’s some kind of meeting, Slade can tell.

He’s not really surprised when they’re joined by the most profound mob boss of Blüdhaven, and, eventually, the city’s deputy mayor as well. Two more people join them, and each one brings along three or four bodyguards -his redhead has three, and his Latino guy two. Depudy's got five. The blond kid is the only one that has arrived on foot and completely alone. All three of them, annoyingly enough, had reached the place separately. Had they been on the same vehicle, he could have just blown it up and get this over with already. Maybe not painful enough, but Slade would settle for efficiency. Getting all of them in one go would be preferable than taking chances. He really wouldn’t like to have to chase them around.

They’ve chosen the place quite wisely. It’s the exact opposite of anyone’s idea of a remote location; right downtown, in a side-road quite close to the main square. The high, stern building (mainly consisted of various offices, all closed at night) is squeezed between two others and surrounded by a hundred more, differing in nothing compared to them. The windows, curtained or otherwise covered in most cases, offer quite low visibility. Slade, despite having already located the exact floor and positioned himself accordingly across the street has trouble finding the targets and pointing at them, even looking through the sight.

From what he _can_ tell, however, things are seemingly getting tensed. His Latino guy is on his feet, intensely quarrelling with the mob boss, their bodyguards getting gradually agitated, to the point that the redhead (Leroy) gets up from his chair to bring the spirits back at peace. He looks reserved and measured, and the way everyone kind of shuts up and listens to what he has to say has Slade guessing that, if they do have an informal leader, it must be this guy.

The alerting sound of an incoming call has him turning his attention elsewhere for a second. He grins, knowing exactly who it is, and answers, turning back to glance through the sight once more.

“About time you called back,” he says.

_“Huh? You’ve only called once, and I’m out working my ass off tonight. You should be thankful I’m returning your call at all.”_

Slade chuckles. “Always nice to know you’re keeping that ass in shape. And in case you feel like parking it somewhere nice tonight, I just so happen to be in your wretched city for a few hours.”

Dick groans from the other side of the line. _“Dammit, Slade. I’ve told you to call prior!”_

Slade tuts. “You know how I work, bird-boy.”

_“Yeah, well, serves you right then, I can’t meet you. I’ve got Jay home; I want to get back to him after I’m done with those pricks.”_

Slade looks up. “How’s he?”

Dick huffs._“He’s, uh… you know. He’s trying. He really does. I finally managed to convince him to get out of Gotham for a while. He still refuses to get on suit, or come out on patrol, but… you know. Small steps. At least he’s changing his air, for the time being.”_

“Ah, and now he gets that fresh, _clean,_ Blüdhaven air,” he scoffs.

He amuses at the thought of how Dick must be childishly pouting right now. _“It’s better than nothing, okay? And just to be clear, I don’t believe you mentioned what exactly brings you here.”_

“You’re right. I didn’t.”

_“Slade, you’re not killing anyone in my city.”_

Slade growls, watching his three targets and everyone surrounding them suddenly going utterly still, and then nervously glancing around. “We’re not doing this now, kid.”

“_I’m dead serious!”_

“That makes two of us.”

Now it was evident that something… alarming was happening. The goons had their guns in hand, screaming things toward… the ceiling…?

At the same time, Dick tuts, heavily annoyed, and loud, furious voices burst from his side of the phone. _“Yep, they know I’m here, gotta go. Got some scorpions to catch.”_

Slade freezes. “What did you say?”

_“Later! Don’t-kill-anyone!”_

“Kid—!”

The line dies, and almost immediately, Slade sees something hitting one of the men right in the face, throwing him down. Next thing he knows, an all-too familiar figure lands on the floor, guns go blasting, and the fight begins.

“God fucking dammit, kid!” he hisses, charging the riffle.

The visibility’s still shitty, and the frantic dance taking place in the room right now _really_ isn’t helping. It’s deeply tempting to simply blaze the place off and just take _everyone_ down. Only, now, he can’t do that. He can’t shoot and risk catching Dick. He’d probably be as fast as to jump back up, into a safe spot on the beams, but still… he can’t be sure he’ll do it in time.

Damn himself for getting attached after all.

He cannot let his targets go, or, most probably, now that Grayson’s there, get arrested. It’ll be much harder to get them down then. Not impossible, by no means… but trickier. More expensive, _and_ out of his deadline. This case is also a matter of dignity. He’ll be damned if he fails delivering results in time to Lawrence in particular. And so, as soon as he gets eyes on one target -namely, the blond, German kid- he immediately takes the shot. Both literally and figuratively.

Everything happens incredibly fast. There’s zero time for hesitation. It’s not an occasion where one could pass on any given chance.

And apparently, tonight is _not_ his night, because it’s not the target he gets, but merely a mirror. What he’d seen through the dirty glass of the window was a damn reflection.

With the glass now out of the way, he has clearer view of the room, but it doesn’t mean a thing. The further panic caused by the knowledge that, apart from Nightwing attacking them, there is also a sniper lurking, has them all drawing back, avoiding the windows the best they can.

All except Grayson.

He’s the only one not taking cover. The only one simply standing there, in the middle of the room, in open ground, for two seconds, looking straight at him. It’s not that far, and his mask does have recording features, so Slade is able to see everything; both confusion _and_ anger written on his face.

Maybe he can’t fully see him, but the kid is no idiot. He knows Slade’s there.

“Don’t be a fucking idiot right now… come on…” he mutters, grinding his teeth.

Dick throws one of his sticks to one of the deputy’s bodyguards who’s charging at him. It gets the guy landing harshly down on his back, and Slade doesn’t see what happens next, since the window shades shut down -compliments of the second stick.

Slade knows what this is. He’s cutting his view, so that he can’t target. The kid knows that he won’t risk shooting _him_ down, and he’s using it.

It… infuriates him.

Once again, he calls, this time through intercom, vowing that if he doesn’t get a response, he’ll wreck the damn place down.

“Nightwing!” he growls (you always got to play it safe through intercom, no matter how safe you think your line is). “They’re mine, **_back off!”_**

_“No, screw you!”_ Dick shouts almost immediately, angry and determined. _“Go away!”_

“Don’t test my patience, and don’t act like a fool. You _know_ I’m not leaving until I finish my job.”

_“Not if I have something to s—”_

The next thing that comes, following this predictable, cut-in-the-middle line, is a series of four distinctive, unsettling sounds; a distinct whistle, like a bullet or maybe an arrow swiftly splitting the air, and then piercing through flesh. One shocked, breathless gasp. And, last but not least, a bitten-off scream.

His fury is instantly put aside. “Dick?” he demands abruptly.

There’s no answer this time, only heavy, agonized breathing. And then, a terrifyingly long, high-pitched scream.

* * *

It’s a speargun. A goddamn speargun, Dick realizes, through a firestorm of pain.

They’ve got him like a fish.

The sharp end is hammered through his right shoulder. Fresh blood’s soaking at his suit. He’s now down on both knees and soon on his back, as the unknown assailant starts _dragging_ his form towards him, using the cord.

The pain is out of this world. He blacks out, for what he believes is thirty seconds to maybe a few minutes. When he comes to, his shoulder’s burning and itching torturously. They have him kneeling on the floor, someone holding him up, gripping tightly at his hair. There’s a hand on his face, fingers tracing along the line of his jaw, before heading upwards.

“No…” he groans, but is profoundly ignored, and his mask is ripped away.

Someone’s crouching in front of him, holding his mask in hand. He proceeds to take his chin between his thumb and forefinger and lift his head, to cross eyes with him. The guy has curly, reddish-blond hair, a pair of very lightly colored eyes, and looks like he’s in his late thirties.

“Damn,” he croons, brushing his thumb just under Dick’s lips. “Batman certainly knows how to pick them. Look at this one.”

Dick’s head is roughly jerked backwards by the hand on his hair. A bulky Latino guy, the one that apparently shot him, is starring down at him. He looks like a gang member. Shaved head, thin mustache, various tattoos -a subtle, black scorpion at the side of his neck. His face is carved with older, faint scars. His distinctive alpha scent is distractingly heavy. Right now, this scent, mixed up with sweat, combined with the copper of his own blood _and_ the intensity of the pain on his shoulder, has Dick dangerously close to throwing up.

The man nods, with an approving sound. “Too bad he’s no omega.”

“Oh?” the other guy offers. “I, for one, don’t mind that one bit.”

The Latino rolls his eyes, and lets go of his hair, sending his head forward and causing him to grunt in pain. “Jeez. Why can’t you just be _normal_?”

Ginger-guy laughs softly and opens his mouth to say something, but is cut off by the frantic shouts of one of their men.

“Boss, we need to bounce, _now_!”

The guy finally releases his chin and stands once again, straightening his back, taking his time. Dick just now realizes how tall he is. “And why would we do that?”

The goon that had spoken waves frantically to the window with the closed shades.

Just as Dick starts dizzily wondering whether the spear got his lung or not, ginger speaks directly at him. “Your friend,” he asks, waving with his head at the direction of the window. “Who is he?”

“Gotta be Red Hood,” Latino growls. “The one Bat using guns, isn’t he?”

“No.”

Dick just now notices a third person standing right at his left, with a gun still in hand. The voice is soft and almost melodic, with a distinctive German accent. Somewhat feminine, just like the whole frame of this young man, who’s intently, yet expressionlessly, studying him. He’s short, lean. His face pale and weirdly smooth. Blond hair still stands combed back, despite the previous confrontation.

There is something… truly unsettling about this one.

“He was speaking on his earpiece just before you got him. Had it been a Bat,” he explains, very calmly, “they would have already charged in here for him. So, no. This is someone _very_ careful.”

“Alright, that’s it!”

Jonas Willow, the deputy mayor, stands by the door, accompanied by his last remaining bodyguard. Evidently panicked. “You idiots, you’ve led us to an ambush, don’t you see? I demand that you grant me safe exit _right now,_ or else…”

The blond man, with an expression of perfect serenity, picks up his gun and shoots him. Right in the forehead. A second one instantly follows, getting his bodyguard in the exact same spot.

Dick would have shouted at him to stop, if he had the strength.

“Everyone,” ginger then instructs in a loud voice to the fifteen men still standing (the drug lord and his own goons had managed to escape through the front door as soon as the party had started). “Stay… calm.”

Once he’s certain the heaviest of tension has dropped, ginger turns back to him. “We can do this the easy way,” he tells him, “or the hard way.”

Dick takes a short, shaky breath. “If you want your lives,” he says, gasping in pain at even trying, “you’ll disappear right now… or you’ll all be dead before the night ends.”

Grave-like silence falls upon his words. For quite a while, nobody moves a muscle. And then, there’s a twist at the sharp metal spear, still settled through his shoulder. He can’t scream this time, because it simply leaves him out of breath. It’s just too much.

The world darkens again, but he doesn’t exactly pass out this time. Every sound falls to the lowest point for a while, and then all gradually start coming back to him, just like his blurry vision.

“… if you remove it right now, like this, he will bleed out within minutes,” he hears the blond kid saying. “I will do it later, safely. We still need him alive. At least until we know we can safely leave this place.”

Dick has a sense of another thick stream of blood gushing from the wound on his shoulder. Somebody’s moving in front of him, and he wearily looks up. It’s the blond kid. He settles his gun down on the floor -carefully away from Dick’s reach- and approaches him again. He studies Dick for another moment, and then reaches out and removes his earpiece.

“Maybe,” he says quietly, passing the device to ginger-head, “we should just ask them ourselves.”

* * *

_“Hello.”_

A voice. Calm, and almost pleasant. And _not_ Dick’s.

He’s already about to take off and raid the place by this point. This has him hovering for a second. He doesn’t offer an answer. Just waits.

_“Who are you?”_ the voice then asks.

Slade takes place by the window once more. “_You_ are the one calling. _I_ should be the one asking.”

A small pause. _“Okay,” _the man says. _“I’m going to stand in front of a window now. You can shoot me, of course. But then, my friends here will have to shoot someone too…”_

A loud, clear whine of pain erupts following the words and it has him cringing, clenching his teeth.

_“… and I’m sensing you wouldn’t want that.”_

Soon enough, a figure does indeed come to stand before a window, and he instantly identifies it as Leroy.

They just stare at each other for a few seconds, and Slade’s certain the man knows who he is, since the previous, pleasant note in his voice is not at all visible on his face at this point. _“Lawrence sent you,” _comes then, voice dark and stern.

It’s not a question. Merely a statement.

“One would expect that after twelve years in this, you’d know _not_ to ask about employers, Freddy.”

A small, sideways smirk blooms over the man’s lips. _“Fair enough, **Deathstroke**,”_ he complies (and basically lets the rest of his group know whom they are dealing with). _“We want a safe passage out of the building.”_

Slade hums, sarcastically. “Everyone just _wants_ something, don’t they? I myself want a lot of things I don’t always get.”

He can see the smirk widening. _“I can imagine,”_ the man lowers his voice. _“Like, say… getting somewhere in time? Before something… horrible… happens to someone you care about?”_

Once the words truly register to him, every sound from everywhere around instantly degrades to nothingness. To a terrifying, suffocating void.

_“Such a stubbornly brave kid you had,”_ he goes on, _“So Nacho tells me. I wish I’d gotten to meet him too. Spend just a little time with him.”_

A buzz piercing through his ears. An unliftable weight crushing over his chest. His insides squiring and twisting, and his brains boiling inside his head.

“_From what I hear, whatever he was asked… no matter **how** he was asked… he never said a thing. Very… professional,”_ the man goes on, his gaze shifting away and out of Slade’s field of vision, somewhere to his left on that room. _“Just like this one.”_

Leroy’s eyes return to him.

He doesn’t breathe at all. His fingers are so temptingly brushing against the trigger, tickling at it. It’s point-blank. A perfect shot, if he wanted to take it. And, oh… how he _wants_ to.

_“Not letting us out, I take it,”_ he concludes. _“All right, then. Maybe, instead, **you** can come by. How about that? Come on, Slade. We’ve got stories to tell you. About your pretty son. Don’t you want to hear them?”_

Images are getting burned and carved into his brain.

“Since you so nicely ask,” he quietly responds. “I’ll take it as your final wish.”

A dark chuckle of irony. _“Good luck.”_

The window shades go down.

* * *

The guy takes the earpiece off.

Since no one made a sound during the short call, everyone’s heard every single word he had let out. Dick already bitterly knows there’s going to be a bloodbath in here. And he can do nothing to prevent it. Not anymore. Not after… _this._

Ginger approaches them again. “How on earth are _you_, of all people, working with Deathstroke?” he asks him, with genuine curiosity this time. “I’ll admit, I would have never seen that coming.”

Dick says nothing. He tries to concentrate on breathing through the pain. Nice, slow, deep and even.

It’s _so_ damn hard.

The blond kid stands with his back against the wall. His arms hang limply at his sides, but his fists are tightly bunched. His jaw clenched impossibly tight.

“That,” he slowly whispers to ginger, “was the stupidest thing I’ve ever witnessed _anyone_ doing.”

Dick, internally, absolutely agrees.

Ginger only smiles. “Let him come,” he says, dialing something on his phone, “and we’ll see."

* * *

It takes him five seconds to start functioning again. His hands still feel numb as he takes his phone out and dials Dick’s apartment.

Dial one. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The answering machine takes it from there. **_“Hey there. You know what to do,”_** Dick’s voice says, and then the beep comes.

“Deathstroke. Pick up, kid,” he growls, commandingly. “_Now_.”

Nothing happens. Just silence.

He sighs, rubbing at his forehead. “Todd,” he slightly changes his tone, “Pick up the phone, or, by the morning, you’ll have _minus_ one brother.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone, and welcome to the first update of the year! :)
> 
> (Warning!!! This specific chapter contains disturbing themes, such as torture, bone injury, sadism and rape).

Dick wakes up feeling like he’s floating, and yet, at the same time, absolutely positive that his limbs weight about a tone each. Almost as if gravity has suddenly increased three times over.

At first, he’s unable to form a clear picture of the situation, or his surroundings. Soon enough, though, the stubborn, deep ache on his shoulder serves as a reminder of the previous, unforgiving bonfire against the same spot.

Everything comes back to him, and his eyes flutter open.

He’s currently laid out on a hard surface, a table, or maybe a desk, in a different, much smaller and quieter room, lit by the annoying white light of the typical fluorescent tubes up on the ceiling. It looks like an office, or a small conference room. He stirs, and figures exactly why he feels so cold as soon as he realizes his suit’s been unzipped and pulled down to his waist, leaving his torso and arms bare. When he weakly moves his head to glance at his shoulder, he finds out the spear’s been removed, and at this point, the area looks clean. A pad, slightly soaked in blood, is thoroughly taped down over the wound, and there’s bandage circling the area.

He rolls his head, allowing himself a glance at his right side.

There’s a chair right by him, occupied by the blond man. He just sits there, slightly leaned forward, still as a statue. His eyes are fixed on him with intensity, face completely blank and empty. A shiver runs down Dick’s spine as he wonders for how long, exactly, he’d been so very creepily starring at him.

A distinctive sting in the crook of his left arm registers to him. His wrist is restrained by a belt of some kind, and there’s an IV hooked into one blue vain. It’s connected to a thin tube steadily pumping blood out of the man’s so very pale arm.

His other wrist, as expected, is also restrained.

“O-negative,” the blond answers his question before he even tries to move his lips.

Dick, who is A-positive, is also unable to fully wrap his head around the scene before him. It just doesn’t make sense; one of them, any of them, giving him blood.

“We need you alive,” the guy explains. “For now.”

Dick briefly closes his eyes (not for too long, or he’ll certainly fall asleep again) and takes a breath. “He’ll kill you all,” he warns the guy, his voice low and weak.

Cold, soulless eyes return his gaze. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Dick _is,_ but he’s not going to spend the tiniest bits of energy still left in him over arguing. He just turns his head and fixes his gaze upon the ceiling, refusing to keep looking into those glassy eyes. Wishing he’d never gotten the information about this ‘meeting’ taking place tonight.

Bruce’s voice speaks into his head. “_It only takes a moment,” _he says. “_A single moment of distraction during the fight can make you lose everything.”_

Damn him for (almost) always being right.

He’d been so unspeakably angry at Slade. Ever since this thing between them turned regular, and after some heated arguments and fights (all far too unpleasant to end up into magnificent sex, unfortunately), they’d decided to set some clear and simple boundaries; no talk regarding Slade’s business or family. No talk regarding Dick’s work in any team he was a part of. No contracts on his family or friends. And _-and-_ not involving into each other’s fields and regions. But of course, Slade just had to do his thing, knowing fully well that Dick didn’t want _this_ into his own city. Knowing how hard he’s been trying to keep as much dread as he could as far away as possible.

His anger and bitterness got the best of him. For a moment. Just for a small, single moment. He got distracted. Wasn’t concentrated. Wasn’t careful. And, most importantly, he underestimated the opponent. Beginner’s mistakes, all of those. And yet, he’d fallen for every single one of them.

Slade is furious. Dick doesn’t have to see him or talk to him to tell -he just knows. Knows how damn possessive he can get. Knows how, deep inside, he (at least _kind of)_ cares for him (despite how he’d never admit that). And he… suspects just how many red flags the mention of Grant’s name must have brought up. Oh, yes. That had most definitely struck a nerve. Or, more accurately, _all_ nerves. Dick might still not have a clue on what exactly happened to Grant, but he’s figured by now that it’s an open wound that still torments Slade, to the point that he’s forbidden any word even remotely close to the matter. It has him guessing that, whatever happened back then must have been unspeakable.

Hell. He didn’t even know that Scorpio was involved in whatever happened to Grant in some way, as it was apparent by this point. This alone explains a lot on why Slade was so determined and adamant over whatever was going on.

The door opens, gently, and closes again. Dick dares a glance and identifies the newcomer as the ginger guy.

“That’s enough, Max. Don’t drain yourself,” he points at the IV with his eyes as he approaches. “You already look like a vampire.”

He hovers over Dick, smiling in an irrationally friendly way that he finds extremely alarming, as the blond _-Max-_ removes the IV and stands up.

“Max values blood a great deal, you know” ginger says. “Especially his own. Would never waste it. So, no need to worry. We won’t make you bleed any further.”

Dick swallows. This, somehow, doesn’t sound relieving. Not one tiny bit. There are so, so many horrific things one can do to another that don’t require any blood spilling.

The eyes slowly darting down his torso aren’t helping either.

“What do you want?” is all he can ask.

Ginger’s smile widens. He leans forward and places each hand, palms open, at either side of him. Gazes at him for a while, before he slides his fingers upwards, along the line of Dick’s jaw, and later swiping them over his scent gland. “A blowjob,” he says plainly, touching the very same fingers to his lips, “to start with.”

Dick shivers, numb and disconnected, stomach squirming, as the words get burned into his head. “Go ahead and dare it,” he warns quietly, against all his fear and disgust, “and see what happens.”

Ginger laughs. “Oh, I know,” he says, and then, before Dick gets a chance to officially inform him that he plans to bite and rip off anything that comes _near_ his mouth, adds “I know you’re not going to comply, or even just lie still and _let_ me get it, so…”

He glances at the blond, and Dick mimics him. The expression on his face is… a different kind of disturbing, now. Bright, luminous eyes are strangely glimmering against a skin as white as snow, to the point that they have Dick vaguely wondering if there’s a chance that the man _is_ an actual vampire.

“When I was little, I mostly lived with my grandmother,” Max says, softly. “She had two canaries. One was yellow. The other orange. She really loved those birds.”

As he speaks, he slowly makes his way around the table, facing away. Dick finds this alarming, and he tries to fight back the instinctive need to pull as far away as his remaining strength allows.

“One day, when she opened their cage to feed them, the orange one flew away, over the nearby woods, never to be seen again. She was absolutely devastated, but also determined not to let this happen again. And, so… she decided to take extreme measures.”

This time, when Max slides a hand, light as a feather, beneath his knee, Dick _does_ flinch away. Or, more accurately, tries. Ginger-head holds him in place, pressing a hand onto his injured shoulder. The wave of pain steals his breath away, not allowing him to scream, but merely gasp. It has him immediately collapsing.

“Easy,” ginger says, warningly.

Dick lies back, managing a sharp, shaky inhale. Max’s hand, that had gone still, but hadn’t been removed at all, now slides… not upwards -surprisingly- but downwards, to his calf, and then his ankle, where it lingers. It really doesn’t feel like a sexual touch to Dick, but… he _does_ have the skin-crawling feeling that, to the other man, in some twisted way, it is exactly that.

The fingers stroke at his (thankfully, still clothed) foot now. Max’s voice drops to something darker. Sinister. “I was there the next day, when she, ever so gently, took the remaining bird in her hands. Oh, how it was singing… up until she caught his little wing and _cracked_ it in the middle. The bird squirmed and shrieked in her hand… I’ve never encountered such a sound of dread and suffering ever since, despite how I’ve looked for it. I’ll never forget her words while she put the poor, broken thing back into its cage…”

It happens in no more than a moment. The fingers close around his ankle in a tight, painful grip. One hand is joined by the other. And together, they grab a firm hold, and _snap._

For one second, Dick _hears_ the loud crack more than he feels it. The sound echoes upon the tall, empty walls of the room, up to the ceiling, just as the impact fully registers in his brain, through his every nerve. His eyes immediately shoot down, and he gets a glimpse of his… of his foot… _hanging_. Limply. Lifelessly, from the ankle down.

He screams. Screams his lungs out. Thrashes and squirms against the four hands holding him down; one pressing down his sternum, one on his left arm, and each of the other two grabbing a hold of each ankle (both the uninjured and the now ruined one).

Pain is one thing. _Shock_ is another.

The angle… this _abnormal_ angle…

_“Just a little,”_ Max then speaks the words, only barely raising the volume of his voice, just to be heard over Dick’s frantic cries of agony. _“Just so you can’t go away.”_

The thrashing causes his shoulder wound to sting violently, as if needles are mercilessly shoved into the spot. He sees huge black spots. Feels his whole energy gushing out of him in record time. Vaguely hears voices speaking, and then a laugh, before he gets a sense of unbearable pressure burdening his chest.

Once he manages to focus once more, he realizes with horror what exactly is going on, and it shakes him to the core. The man, the ginger one (whose name remains unknown to him) is on the table, having dropped down heavily onto Dick’s bare chest. He’s straddling his neck now, one hand gripping harshly at his hair, holding his head still. The other is just now fishing his -already hard- cock out of his underwear.

“Don’t you… dare… no…” Dick stutters, trying to turn his head away, to push him off, anything, _anything_…

A knee digs into his injured shoulder. Accompanied by a powerful, vicious growl by the other alpha above him, it causes him to whine hopelessly. Another careful, counted squeeze at his wrecked ankle has him going completely limp. Apart from trembling, that is.

“You want the pain to stop, right, sweetheart? I guarantee you Max back there _doesn’t,”_ ginger indicates, smirking cruelly. “He’ll be more than happy to keep this going. Each with their own kinks, what can I say. He’s a creeper like that.”

Another tug, which has him spasming.

“Now there,” he lowers his voice a little more, as if it’s just for Dick. “You still have one good ankle. And two good _knees._ So… don’t make me have him do this again, yes? Just open up those pretty lips for me. Come on, don’t try and fight. It’s over now.”

Dick closes his eyes, still shaking. The deep, constant ache paralyzing his foot from the ankle down, as well as the blonde’s steady grip around his broken bones (not as devastatingly painful as before, for the time being; merely warning. A loud and clear, unspoken threat) get something inside him to crack.

There is a certain, dreadful moment in some battles… when one knows they’ve _lost_.

Ignoring how his stomach’s lurching, he slowly allows the muscles of his face to relax. Ginger grins wickedly, with the distinctive, satisfied smirk of a winner, as he grips the base of his cock and presses its tip against Dick’s lips. Then, with a little more force, past them. The alpha above him lets out a pleasured sound, something between a groan and another growl, as he pushes inside.

Dick tries his best not to retch. He doesn’t want this bitterness to rise up right now. Mostly because he’s uncertain that the guy will be merciful enough to withdraw and just let him get everything out before using him. As far as he can tell, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d let him choke on his own vomit, as long as he got his release.

He tries not to think. To mentally escape this. To be somewhere else, with someone else. And yet, all the techniques Bruce has taught him over the yeas prove miserably inadequate in this case. All the pain, the way his entire body aches and burns, combined with the utter exhaustion claiming his every cell, serve to forcibly keep him locked into his body. Into this sickening reality.

When meditating fails, he simply does his best to shorten the ordeal. Make it end faster. Refusing to make eye contact, he focuses on the void as he keeps his mouth open, allowing the guy to buck his hips and slide his cock against his tongue, looking to graze at the back of his throat. Mercilessly. Repeatedly.

A breathless chuckle comes from above him, followed by a raspy, “Yeeeeah… you’ve done this before, haven’t you?”

Dick’s face burns, his muscles stiffening for a second. The guy senses that, and in response, the fingers still tangled in Dick’s hair tighten, dragging his head further over his organ as he snaps his hips forward, slamming his cock inside. At the same moment, another tug at his ankle has Dick whimpering in terror.

Yes, he’s done this before. He’s done this for Slade. _With_ Slade. And he’s enjoyed that, just like he’s enjoyed everything else they’ve done together. It’s always thrilling to him; Slade’s challenging, calculated way of asserting dominance. Dick has always appreciated strength in his partners, but still, he’d never experienced anything even remotely close to what Slade gave him. Being an alpha, and especially as skilled as Dick is, makes it pretty damn hard to find someone covering specific needs. Hell. He didn’t even know he had those needs, before their first time together. Didn’t know how he’d enjoy the massive, sheer size of Slade’s. How much he’d love being handled by someone this unpredictable. _This_ dangerous.

Slade was in for just about anything, and never judged.

It’s miles away from what he’s experiencing at this very moment. Slade had never crossed the line. No matter what game they found themselves in, he’d never _truly_ forced him. Never _hurt_ him. He’s always been aware of where and when to stop. He knew just how much Dick could handle, sometimes even before Dick himself realized where his limits stood.

Rough, heavy panting above him, as well another harsh tug at his hair, snap him out of his thoughts. The guy’s almost there, he can tell.

He pulls Dick’s head further forward, in a now painful, unnatural angle (he thinks about his ankle again, and the urge to vomit rises up once more). His nose gets buried into thick, red pubic hair. The man snaps his hips up, driving forcefully into Dick’s throat, and he chokes, unable to contain a muffled, desperate sound. The organ throbs on his tongue, and then there’s a loud groan. Hot spray is released, bitter and vile, right down his throat. The guy stills and just _stays_ there. Dick realizes his choices are limited here; basically, swallow or choke, so he (reluctantly) chooses the former.

Once the man removes himself, Dick focuses on desperately gasping for air, even as a last, sickly warm stream of cum splashes over his face.

Ginger looks at him, catching his breath as well. He smiles, swiping both his hand backwards, smoothening his hair. He finally backs off a little, uncrowding him and allowing him a little more space. He does, however, lean over him, proceeding to rub a thumb over his cheek, and hen further down again, to his scent gland.

“See? Was that so hard?” he drawls, a macabre smile sprawling across his face. “Next time, how about you _help_ a little bit as well, hm? Not just lay there on your back and tolerate. Your mouth is worth the trouble, I must say, but I’d appreciate a little more… _cooperation_.”

Dick blinks at him, once, and then lifts his head and spits any of the man’s cum left in his mouth right up at his smug face.

The brief satisfaction of seeing the surprised, enraged expression blooming over this prick is worth the loud crack that fills the room, as he’s backhanded across the face. Then, immediately, a second one follows. One that splits his bottom lip open.

Blood snakes its way in his mouth, as the guy dismounts him. Once he’s completely gone from over him, Dick gets a view of Max, still located at the other end of the table.

All the features on that creepily childlike face that’s now flushing pink are drawn back in intensity, eyes wide open, starring right at him. His small mouth is slightly parted, but Dick doesn’t hear him panting, even though his chest is quickly moving up and down, indicating the rapid beating of his heart. He’s still holding a grip of his ankle. His other hand, however, is grasping at his own cock. Thick ropes of come are just now released, splashing over Dick’s leg.

It’s what eventually sends his stomach off. He weakly leans at the side, as much as his injuries allow, and finally lets out, down on the floor, all the bile that’s been tickling at his throat for some time now. Lays his head back on the table, breathless, face clammy and hair damp in cold sweat, as soon as he’s got nothing more to throw up.

Distantly, he hears Ginger’s scoffing giggle. "Can't wait to get you off the rest of your suit, sweetheart. An ass like that shouldn't be wasted." 

Dick shuts his eyes, still trying to come back to himself. His body feels so devastatingly heavy that he can barely move a muscle. His shoulder is on fire, and so is his ankle, even in the slightest move. The awful, bitter taste that still fills his mouth and throat seems to be suffocating him. And yet, somehow, what feels the worst are the tears burning at the inside of his eyes.

He’s adamant not to let them roll down his face. Not to give them more satisfaction than they’re able to forcibly snatch by using and humiliating him.

Ginger says something. He only catches the words “why not” and “as long as he’s alive.” Dick glances at his side, and watches as the man heads towards the door, leaves the room, and slams it shut behind him.

He slowly turns his head, and his eyes cross with Max’s cold stare. The blonde is now standing over him once more, his face still a little pink after his release, but Dick barely notices that. He barely has eyes for anything but the wedge and sledgehammer Max now holds in each hand.

A freezing wave runs down his spine, as the tools are left aside, and the blond proceeds to tighten the bonds keeping Dick’s wrists trapped.

“I will give you a few minutes to catch your breath,” he says in a soft, unreasonably calm voice (disturbingly unfitting to the evil spark still settled in his eyes) once he finishes his task. “I’m shattering your knee next.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! Hope you guys are doing okay!
> 
> Not much to say here... mild warning for blood and heavy injuries, I guess.  
(so happy for this update, honestly XD)
> 
> Hope you enjoy! :)

“We should have some of the men focusing on the roof,” Perez growls.

“Nightwing pulled that one already,” Leroy responds with a small shrug of his shoulders. “He’ll know we won’t fall for it a second time.”

Once the redhead turns to glance at the other man, he comes to face a dark expression, eyebrows furrowed impossibly as Perez stares at him intently. “What is it?”

“You gave him my fucking name,” Perez hisses. “To fucking _Deathstroke, _hombre!”

Leroy tuts, sliding out a gun from the back of his belt and taking the safety off. “I said _Nacho._ It’s a vastly common name, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Oh, yeah! I bet it’ll be hard for him to figure!”

“Calm down. Nothing will happen,” he idly remarks. “I don’t intend to die tonight. I assure you, I’m walking out of this alive.”

The Latino thunders him with a poisonous stare. “We. _We_ are walking out of this. Fucker.”

Leroy laughs, apologetically. “Of course,” he nods.

Perez glances at their men, all placed in battle stances, guns in their hands. He rolls his eyes and waves for his partner to move aside a little, where it’ll be hard even for the closest goon to figure what exactly is being said.

“Are we now lying to ourselves as well?” he grumbles through gritted teeth. “Our heaviest piece of arm right now is a fucking AK-47. If you’re seriously expecting it’ll do anything against whatever Deathstroke’s brought with him, you’re far less smart than we give you credit for.”

The redhead gives a low chuckle, crossing arms over his chest, still holding the gun in one hand. “He’s here with a contract, it’s apparent. If it was on Willow or Garanno, he’d already left us alone. Plus, he knew my name. He wants one of us. Bloody hell, maybe even _all_ of us. We’re only alive because he wants the pretty boy back.”

“Then what the fucking hell are we doing, exactly?”

Leroy smirks. “Stalling.”

“We’re… what?”

The redhead waves a hand to the one door of the room that communicates with the long corridor leading to the stairs and the elevator. “Why do you think I put what remained of Mr. Deputy’s men out there? They’re front lines. They’ll go down immediately. Just to let us know when he’s coming. Then he gets here, our own’ll keep him busy for a while. I expect that, by the time he’s done with them as well, backup will have arrived.”

“Backup?” Perez narrows his eyes. “What backup?”

Leroy’s smirk widens. “Only the very best.”

Perez rolls his eyes. “Fuck you, of course you’re not worried, you piece of shit, he’s just gonna put a bullet in your head, but me? After what you told him?”

“If he _does_ get to us… we’ll have to do our best to stall him ourselves,” Leroy says thoughtfully, facing away. “You’ll have to be doing most of it.”

“How in the fucking hell am I supposed to…”

“Didn’t you hear what I told him?” he turns to him again. “He now expects to hear some _very_ specific stories. And you’re going to narrate those stories to him. For narration, dear friend, buys time. Certainly not pleasant time, but still…”

“Are you out of fucking mind?” the guy now roars, uncaring to all the eyes jumping instantly at their direction.

Leroy remains perfectly peaceful. “I’d do it. Honestly, I would. I won’t be as convincing, though. I’ll help you out, if I can, but I don’t know all the details. You, on the other hand, know those stories… firsthand. Isn’t that right? If you didn’t want to be in this position right now, well… perhaps you should have known better than running around bragging about what you did to his dead son’s cunt.”

Perez leaves out his deepest, most threatening, spine-chilling alpha growl possible, and all but lunges at the other man. “Hijo de—!”

His undoubtfully eloquent statement is cut short, smothered under the sounds of multiple gunshots. The ginger, having lost his jolly attitude within seconds, raises his gun, commanding everyone to hold their places.

“Your fucking backup better get here real soon,” Perez hisses, taking cover behind a desk, “or they’ll find nothing but our raped fucking corpses in this dump!”

* * *

Dick stirs weakly at the sound of gunshots firing. His eyes open just a crack, his head slightly turning towards the door.

His hair stick to his forehead, damp in sweat. The pain’s now constant. His lips move, but no voice comes out. _Slade,_ he means to say. _Slade._ He wants him. Needs him. Needs his scent, his strong arms around him, he needs—

Light steps make a circle around the table Dick’s still laid on. His torturer moves to the door, and locks it, three times, and Dick would have snorted out a laugh at the sight, if he wasn’t so utterly drained already.

Sure. A locked door would be just the thing to prevent Slade from entering a room. Any room.

“Hate to be… to be that guy, but really… I _did_ warn you,” he manages to voice, breathlessly.

Max slowly turns his head and stays like that, just gazing at him for several seconds, his eyes two dark, bottomless pits that then proceed to rake all over him.

Even if he had the strength, Dick would still categorically refuse to do the same thing -look down at himself. Look down at his shoulder. Or his ankle. Or his knee.

_His knee._

“Well,” Max says quietly, coming to stand above him, “if at some point it gets quiet, we’ll know he’s coming. And,” he adds, retrieving a thick piece of rope from the small case he keeps his ‘tools’, “I’ll make sure he only finds one of us alive in here.”

Dick shivers and swallows as the rough material is slowly dragged across his neck. The reaction seems to bring a look of unmistakable satisfaction upon the blond man’s face. It’s not a smile. Just… satisfaction.

“You didn’t think I was going to simply plant a bullet in your head like that brute Perez would have done, I hope. No, I prefer things to be a little more… elegant.”

So. To this creep’s head, the word ‘elegance’ is, apparently, equivalent to strangling him.

Perfect.

“I do hope it doesn’t come down to that,” Max clarifies. “I’d really like to keep you, for a while. I have a feeling Fred would also like that very much. I wonder for how long would you make it, provided that…”

It happens fast. So fast that, for a few seconds, Dick isn’t certain it ever occurred at all.

One moment, Max’s eyes are on his. And then, he’s gone. All Dick can see is the ceiling, and it takes him a while to connect the fact with the ear-piercing sound of glass shattering. The dark figure coming through the window. The dry, raw thud of the figure’s foot connecting to Max’s jaw. The gulped, heavy, wet gasp following.

He almost blacks out trying to figure what the hell is this, because out there, guns are still firing, which means Slade is _there_ and not _here, _but then who _is_ this, what is going on, and he wants, he _really_ wants to turn his head and take a damn look, but he feels so lost, so weak, so paralyzed…

Thankfully, he doesn’t have to put much more effort into thinking, since hasty footsteps approach, and then, there’s a face on his field of vision. A face, upon which he finds imprinted the most breathless, agonized expression, behind _his own_ mask. The lenses are hiding his eyes. Soft black hair, just slightly curlier than his own.

Dick gasps, his mind blocking. His unfocused eyes dart down, and he ends up gazing at the red imprint of the bird over the man’s chest. This is his suit, one of his old suits, actually, and it makes no sense, except… except if…

Wait. Wait—

“Dick… Dick, fuck, I… fuck,” the other ‘Nightwing’ says hoarsely, voice blurry in empathy and concern. One gloved hand coming up to lightly settle at the side of his face. A gentle touch. Caring. “Dickie…”

The voice is what ends up connecting everything. Yes, it makes sense. It makes sense, because Jason, of course, didn’t bring his suit in Blüdhaven. Despite Dick’s subtle (yet persistent) efforts, he categorically refused each time, strongly determined it would be meaningless, since he didn’t intend to go in patrol with him.

“How?” he stutters, thrilled by such a surprise that he almost forgets all the pain wrecking his body. “How… how did you…?”

He doesn’t end his phrase. It doesn’t really matter now. He vaguely suspects Slade has something to do with it, but still, it doesn’t matter. All that matters to him is that Jason is here. He’s here, suited, up and running again. Back into action, after so, so very long.

“Looking good, little NightWing,” he manages a shaky, breathless laugh.

Nightwing-Jason hesitates. “Couldn’t get here naked, could I?”

Dick smiles, even though he wants to cry for a hundred thousand reasons.

He always viewed Jason as his brother. Always. Even back then, when there always seemed to be so many… barriers between them. So many obstacles to overcome. So many… _excuses. _At first, his own teenage rebellion and the consequent troubled relationship with Bruce. Then, once Jason returned, their stubborn adherence to the idea that Jason was unstable, hence wrong, so they were obligated to stop him (rather than just sit for a moment and actually _listen_ to him).

His sorrow and regret that he could never be the brother he should have been -the brother he _wanted_ to be- to Jason was partly why he’s always been so close to Tim and Damian, so fiercely protective of them. He was always striving to be for them everything he would have been for Jason, if only the circumstances were better, if only… if only he was wiser back then. Less focused on himself and on all the problems he thought were lying on the way.

_Just be beside him,_ Slade had said. _He’ll let you know what he needs._ And Dick, for the first time, had done exactly that. 

It was anything _but_ easy. Getting Jason to open up to him -to anyone- after the massive trauma he had endured. It took effort… to say the least. Patience, too. God. So much of it. And it isn’t over yet, even at this point. Jason still has a long way to go until he’s healed inside (if he’s ever going to be), and Dick intends to be there, by his side, as much as Bruce is.

During those past few months, him and Jason had grown closer than in all the years they knew each other. He’s never losing that again. And right now, the fact that at this point Jason was comfortable enough to put on Dick’s own suit and come out to his rescue, despite his written-in-stone denial of going into action in general, is a further proof to that, and it’s… priceless to him. Simply priceless.

Jason’s eyes move to the wound on his shoulder, and then further down, to his leg. “You’re in pain,” he swallows.

Jason somehow sounds so much younger, so very lost and worried and _hurt_ as the words leave his mouth. Dick would pull a rumble, had there been any energy left in him. For now, all he can do is try and offer some verbal reassurance. “It’s okay,” he says in a voice far too raspy and shaky to be comforting. “It’s okay, Jase. Doesn’t hurt much.”

Jason shakes his head, his frown deepening as he quickly unstraps the bonds keeping Dick’s arms trapped. “Shut up, liar,” he utters.

As Jason slowly helps him put the upper part of his suit back on, a low groan registers to both, only barely audible over the mayhem apparently taking place at the other side of the door. He simply dares a glance, while Jason spins around immediately.

The sight shouldn’t be surprising, really, taking into consideration the force of Jason’s infamous kicks, he thinks as he watches Max struggling to get on his knees. Such obvious incoherence in the moves of someone so calculative must be an indication of concussion. He’s visibly disoriented, his jaw is dislodged, half-hanging out of place, his nose evidently cracked and bleeding relentlessly.

One moment Jason is beside him. The very next, he’s rapidly striding his way to the blond, all the fury in the world oozing from his every move.

“Ja— Wing,” he groans, weakly supporting himself on his left elbow.

Jason stops and glances back at him. Dick pleads with him, silently. Watches, as a profoundly visible inner struggle takes place, for what feels like several minutes, while in reality, it can’t be more than a few seconds, before Jason huffs out, growling something incomprehensible.

Max backs off slightly as Jason approaches him, but can’t do much to avoid the upcoming kick in the stomach that sends him down on his back. Can’t do much to draw his foot back to avoid Jason stepping on his ankle and crushing it down on the ground.

Dick shivers at the scream. Shudders violently when Jason does something he _refuses_ to directly watch to the knee of Max’s other leg, and despite feeling nauseated again, he sure as hell won’t claim he feels sorry for the creep.

Next thing he knows, Jason’s beside him again, carefully helping him sit up. He gets a glimpse of Max, laid out on the floor, having evidently passed out.

“Jason,” he whispers. “They… they’re… involved in…”

Jason looks at him in the eye, probably more serious than he’s ever witnessed him before in his life. “Listen to me, Dick. I don’t give a shit what your case was about, or what Deathstroke wants with them, for that matter,” he says quietly. “I’m here to get you out, and that’s what I’m gonna do. Anything else will wait until you’re safe and fucking healed, understood?”

Dick swallows. “Slade… he will… if we let him, he will… my city…”

Jason roughly shakes his head. “You’re down, Dick. You’re _down. _Let it go!”

He’s right. He knows he’s right, and he can’t even feel bitter or angry about it right now. Everything just hurts too much. Inside and out. All he wants to do is hide his face in Jason’s shoulder and sob like a baby, take comfort in his scent.

“Alight,” Jason breathes. “Alight, look… your left side is fine, right? Human crutch it is. The least painful in this case. Wrap your arm over my shoulder, yes? Support yourself with your good leg and lean your weight against me. Everything else is on me. Okay?”

“Going where?” Dick wheezes.

“The fire escape. The way there is right across the hall. He told me. He’ll cover us.”

Dick weakly nods. He’s vaguely aware of loud voices, which also leads him to the realization that the shooting’s stopped -or paused, for some reason.

“Hey!”

He looks up again, as Jason’s hands come up to frame his face. “I’ll get you out, Dick. I swear.”

This unexampled mix of sheer agony and uncertainty he witnesses takes his head off his own pain for a moment.

“I know,” he rasps softly. “I know you will. I trust you, Jay. Always trust you.”

***

_He originally intended to make it as fast as possible; spend some time with Alfred, grab the few things he’d come for and scoot it out of there. Last thing he wanted was to stumble upon Bruce and inevitably get into yet another fight with him. He’s managed quite well, he thinks as he makes his way down the stairs, relieved he’s avoided any tension, when a low whine escaping the ajar door of the first-floor gym has him slowing down his pace. He stays in place, hovering for a while, before the distressed omega scent coming from in there has him eventually approaching and pushing the door open._

_“Jason?”_

_The boy, who’s currently seated on the floor, jolts, taken aback by his sudden entrance. The abrupt movement, though, causes some kind of sharp pain on his obviously injured, outstretched leg. Jason’s face turns bright pink as he grits his teeth in an attempt to swallow another whine, and every single one of Dick’s protective instincts kick in, thunderously._

_“What happened, little wing?” he anxiously requests as he approaches._

_“When did you even get here?” Jason barks, knitting his eyebrows. “And I’ve told you not to call me that!”_

_“Are you okay?” Dick asks, crouching beside him._

_“I’m fine!” Jason hisses, looking down at his leg. _

_Dick hesitates for a moment. “Can I have a look at it?” he then asks, gently._

_Jason huffs, but does nothing to prevent him as Dick kneels and cautiously examines the heavily swollen muscles around his ankle._

_“Sprain,” he declares._

_“Yeah, you don’t say,” Jason frowns._

_“Does it hurt a l—”_

_“No!” the boy stubbornly lies._

_Dick glances up at the gymnastics rings hanging from the ceiling. They’re messily tangled to each other. “What were you trying to do?”_

_Jason bends the knee of his uninjured leg and rests his chin there. “I was practicing the double flip and catch.”_

_Dick gasps, his jaw dropping. “Jason, you can’t do that without supervision just yet, it’s dangerous!”_

_“You could do it since you were nine! I’m now twelve!” Jason protests._

_“Yeah, because my parents were acrobats! Ever since I was one, I’ve been spending more time in the air than on the ground! You’ve been practicing for only six months!”_

_“Get off my back, okay?” Jason angrily yells. “I know I can never be as good as you, I’m just… I just…” Jason’s mouth closes, then opens again. His cheeks further blush as he blurts out, “It would make Bruce really proud!”_

_Dick feels he melts inside at how cute Jason looks while saying that. “Bruce **is** really proud of you, little wing!” he firmly states. “He talks about you all the time! About how smart you are, how quickly you’re learning, how amazingly well you’re doing in school…”_

_“How would you even know what he talks about? You’re never here anyway!”_

_The pinch of guilt he feels in his gut probably shows in his face, so he’s glad Jason’s looking away at this point. “This doesn’t have anything to do with you,” he says softly. “This is between me and Bruce. We just… he’s… Look, there are certain things Bruce refuses to understand, and… I’m nineteen, Jason. I’m an adult now. I can’t keep hiding under his cowl for the rest of my life. I need to draw my own path.”_

_Jason just shrugs, saying nothing. Deciding to just follow his instinct, Dick leans forward and loops an arm around Jason’s waist, slowly drawing him closer, until he’s sideways against his chest. Despite clearly being tensed, Jason doesn’t push him away, which he finds to be both surprising and pleasant at the same time._

_“As for that silly thing you said earlier?” he continues with a smile, rubbing his hand up and down his arm. “That you’ll never be as good as me? Well… considering that you’ve managed to be capable enough to fight supervillains and fly from roof to roof in only six months, I’d say that you’re already **better** than me.”_

_“Bullshit,” Jason retorts, even though, judging from how his voice sounds, Dick’s certain he’s smiling._

_He’s is in no mood to scold him for swearing. Not right now, when he finally feels the young omega relaxing against him. He turns his head and noses against Jason’s thick, messy hair, just as the boy lifts his face a bit, and all but nuzzles against his throat._

_Dick feels warmth spreading to his core, responding instantly instead of fighting the urge to rumble, even though he’s never done anything like that for an omega this young before. He’s aware of the fact that Jason didn’t feel safe enough to seek comfort by scenting from anyone but Bruce (who’s become insanely overprotective since Jason presented), so this… the fact that Jason trusts him enough to do that, feels like a huge step in their own relationship, and Dick’s not going to pretend the fact doesn’t fill him with enthusiasm._

_They stay like that for quite some time before, eventually, Dick allows logic to prevail over feeling. “How about we go wrap it up now?” he hums, cupping Jason’s cheek and stroking up and down with his thumb. “And get some ice for the swelling?”_

_He feels Jason giving a small nod._

_“And you’ll let me carry you downstairs, deal?”_

_Jason pouts, adorably so, wrapping arms around his neck. “You won’t tell anyone, or else!” he threatens._

_“I swear,” Dick assures him._

_Jason looks up, blinking those beautiful blues up at him. “Can you stay for a while?” he asks quietly._

_Dick hesitates. Staying means he’ll be forced to meet Bruce after all. Inevitably get into another argument with him -hopefully, not in front of the kid. But it also means he’s getting to spend a little more time with Jason. Right now that, for the first time, Jason actually seems to seek his company._

_“Of course,” he ends up promising, slipping an arm under Jason’s knees to lift him up. “Of course, I’ll stay.”_

***

In the heat of the shootout, he gets a glimpse of the boys.

They get off pretty easily -all attention is necessarily turned on him now, after all. He can’t clearly see Dick’s face, since his head seems to be hanging, but the kid looks almost completely wrecked, heavily leaning his weight against his brother for support. Jason is basically carrying him, ushering him to the now empty (of living souls) corridor, presumably to where Slade’s pointed out the fire exit is.

Had he been there, he would have carried the kid himself -properly. Would have been able to immediately check on his injuries too. Wouldn’t have to be constantly thinking about it for who knows how long, until he’s able to eventually get to him.

The thought makes part of him anxious to wrap this up quickly. Which, of course, won’t be the case. For this part is small, and now that he knows the kid is safe (and at least relatively well), only barely noticeable in his mind. Unlike that… other part. The one that’s screaming. Again. The one that, as usual, overcomes pretty much anything else, because thinking about Grant laying on a mattress soaked in blood doesn’t help. Never helps.

Anger is fine. By now, he’s learned how to feed on it. Make something useful out of it. And rage is good. It’s basically what keeps him up sometimes. But this thing that always, secretly burns underneath and feels like a knife, constantly twisting in his guts, has now come on top. Has been _provoked_ to come on top, so no, he’s not wrapping this up quickly. In fact, he now wants _-needs- _to make it slow. Even slower than he originally intended.

He plants a bullet into the forehead of the last, useless goon, and is now left with the two real Scorpions in the room. Perez’s got that AK handy, partly covering Leroy, who’s carrying a decent Renetti handgun. They’re firing like maniacs, and he takes cover behind a wall of metal filing cabinets for a second, just so that he reaches for the tear gas grenade which he subsequently lunges at them.

Just as he expected, the non-lethal approach catches them off guard. The grenade lands right between them, and, since they’re both completely unmasked, it gets to them immediately. There’s screeching and grunting. Screaming and vulgar swearing in Spanish. And just like that, it’s basically over for them.

He closes the distance, marching slowly to their direction. Takes his time, waiting for effect to wear out a little. Perez is still spitting curses between coughing and throering like he’s about to upchuck his insides all over the floor. He looks like an enraged grizzly bear, thrashing around with the AK in his hands -not daring to take any shots, since his eyes are red and swollen, almost completely shut. Leroy, clearly being the smart one here, has drawn back to the nearest corner, and already has some rag in hand, pressing it over his entire face.

First thing he does is send a bullet through Perez’s wrist, almost ripping the bone apart, to the point that it’s basically hanging. A jet of blood’s spouted all around and the AK’s immediately dropped on the floor. The man follows suit, an ear-piercing scream covering pretty much every other sound. Leroy jolts, forcing his eyes slightly open and fumbling on the floor around him for a gun, until he realizes Slade’s own pistol’s now aiming right in the middle of his forehead.

“Move another muscle,” he calmly says. “See what happens.”

Leroy huffs in his rag and slowly withdraws his hand. He sneezes, once. Coughs a bit. There are tears and mild swelling around his eyes, but his vision still works, sufficiently. Apparently, unlike his partner, he was as fast as to take immediate cover before it hit him heavily.

He decides to give him a few more moments. “Schwarz,” he then says.

Leroy blinks up at him. “He’s your target, then?” he asks through the fabric.

“Where is he?”

“Guarding Nightwing.”

Which means Jason’s already taken him out, at the very least. He can deal with him later.

He takes another step. Leroy tenses, going rigid. Does his best to look straight at him. Barely manages.

“So,” Slade drawls, lifting his pistol. “Tell me a story, Leroy.”

“As I said earlier,” the redhead immediately pants, “it’s actually Nach—Nacho that knows these stories you want to hear.”

Slade hums. “Then I guess I don’t need you anymore, do I?”

“No,” he coughs out. “Not unless, after that, you’re in the mood to… listen to some _other_ stories… as well. About your… current employer? Huh? Why he wants us down… this bad?”

“Still assuming you know who my employer is, I see.”

Leroy actually has the nerve to chuckle. “For as long as you allow me to breathe… I would very much appreciate it if… if you did me the courtesy of… not treating me like I’m a complete idiot, Deathstroke. I know who it is.”

Knowing fully well that the man might simply be trying to buy himself time, he contemplates on it for a few seconds, recalling how Laurens had clearly implied that his fixation on Scorpio came down on a personal level. Something beyond business and antagonism. Something that, perhaps… perhaps would prove useful to know. Especially if there’s a possibility that this information could be used against the man. Lawrence was, more or less, in his line of business. Deep into it, actually. Perhaps their paths crossed again, in less ‘friendly’ circumstances.

Well. Leroy _is_ quite smart after all. He’s got to give him that.

“Sit tight.”

Leroy nods, seemingly getting the message, and he’s now able to turn his attention elsewhere.

Perez’s still gasping for breath, holding at his forearm and looking at his hanging hand in terror, as much as he can through still swollen eyelids (in his case, it’s only getting worse the more time that passes). He barely notices him until he’s standing right in front him, and at that point, he gives up. “What?! What do you want me to say?” he screams in an obvious frenzy of fury and panic. “What _is_ there to say? You found him, didn’t you? You _know_ what the fuck happened! What, you want details?”

He could be wrong, considering the state of both their faces, but Slade has a sense of the two exchanging a brief glance, before Perez struggles to take a breath.

“I wasn’t there when he kicked it, alright? You would have wasted me with the others if I was! I don’t know… exactly what happened, okay? Last time I saw him was a few days before, and he was… I guess _fine. _I mean… there were no… problems. Clinically. He just… couldn’t stomach anything for a few days… but it had happened before, and he’d lived through it! I don’t know what the others did while I was gone, if they pushed him too hard for sex, or… whatever. One guy there… you’d killed his twin while looking for the kid. He held a grudge. So much that we didn’t normally leave him alone around him. Maybe _he_ got a chance to do something.”

He remains quiet, seemingly preserved. Still, underneath the external wall of calmness, even he himself has a sense of his own scent turning impossibly heavy, sour with fury. He’s not certain it registers to them at this point, given the burning effects of the tear gas still being relevant.

“What else you want? How we found out?” he exhales. “Well… he played it good, your boy. Impressed everyone from… the very first moment. Best marksman we ever got. You know… we _did_ value him. Yeah… he played _us_ good. Not denying it. For a time. But then… then someone found his heat suppressants. Not that he wasn’t careful, he… did hide it pretty well, but… he’d made a few enemies between the other trainees. They were mostly jealous of him. He was simply too good, went up real fast, while they desperately struggled for a place in the sun. You know what envy does to people. They sought out anything that would harm him, devalue him, you know… just a little bit. And they managed.”

“It was Max who found the suppressants.”

Slade glances at Leroy, who has now slightly removed the cloth from over his mouth and nose. “The one you asked for. Max Schwarz,” he waves his head to the direction of the adjoining room.

“Among others,” Perez sighs. “But yeah. The little creep was the most passionate about finding a way to bring ‘im down.”

He keeps staring at Leroy, and the redhead answers his silent question with a shrug. “As I said, I never knew your son myself, I was based elsewhere, but… you know how rumors travel around.”

Perez lifts his eyes up on the damaged ceiling, huffing out something that vaguely sounds like a scoff. “German face had many talents, but hell… he couldn’t even shoot a target from ten feet away back then,” he growls. “Talking about _useless_, hombre. And always… always had a thing about being the best in everything. Loathed anyone even _slightly_ better than himself, so… _of course_ he hated your kid’s guts. He was tall, strong, good looking. Pleasant to talk to. Almost absurdly skilled. Natural talent in hand-to-hand. Already knew every piece of arm and how to make the best use of it. He was just… too good. Max became obsessed. Wouldn’t let it go. Trying to sabotage him, every given chance. Hell, when he finally made it… it must have been the best day of his life. Only time I ever saw him cracking a smile.”

Perez stops, grunting in pain, raising his good hand to push away the liquid leaking from his eyes.

Slade’s still standing. Waiting. Lurking.

He hadn’t expected to hear anything mild. Obviously. But those men… knew Grant. They weren’t just involved.

They… _knew_ him.

“We… interrogated him… to put it mildly. He was… stubborn as a mule. Didn’t spit out a single word about who he was, why he was there. He didn’t break, no matter what we did. Not one bit. Didn’t betray you. Finding out who he really was, was… just a happy coincidence, really. Made the connection once you started looking. I bet you were… really proud, huh? Proud, for raising him so tough, so strong? Ever crossed your mind that if you’d raised him to be a little _less_ tough, well… you would have spared him some pain, at least.”

Perez opens his mouth and tightly shuts his eyes for a moment, as if he struggles for air. He gasps. Takes a pause, resting his head on the wall behind him.

“We would have simply offed him, but then… his heat came up. And your kid… damn. He looked _hella_ fine. Even posing as an alph—"

He suffocates. Coughs his lungs out, mucus mixed with blood shooting out of both his mouth and nose. Gasps for air again. So much struggle indicates previous problems in someone’s respiratory system. Asthma, distress syndrome, some other disease, or simply a heavy smoker.

In any case, he’s suffering. And it’s not enough. Not to him.

“Nobody planned on the brats, it… just happened, and yeah, once found out, we didn’t do anything about it, but… then again… with everything we put him through… we didn’t expect him to last that long in the first place.”

Perez is now finally able to fully crack his eyes open and look up at him somewhat properly. It’s a furious look on the surface, and yet… his scent screams panic.

“And now what? You feel any better?” he hisses. “Putting all the blame on us? What about yourself? _You_ sent him to us, didn’t you? What did you think was gonna happen if we found out? Didn’t you know the risks? Didn’t you know better than to send your handsome, virgin omega boy into a den filled with us, like a lamb to slaughter?”

He almost flinches. Almost. Lowers his gun a bit. Involuntarily. His mind struggling. Struggling to process what he’s just heard.

“Oh,” Perez then drawls, an ugly, vicious smirk lifting the corners of his lips. “Didn’t know that? Well… I guess there are… certain things… a good boy doesn’t share with daddy.”

It’s enough. Way beyond that, actually. He quits trying to be patient and sticks his pistol between the vermin’s eyes, and then, and only then, he realizes there’s movement above him.

He doesn’t take the shot. But not due to lack of will.

Had his reflexes been only slightly slower, he probably would have missed the shift in the space between them and the damaged roof. Wouldn’t have even heard the hissing sound of a blade slashing through the air. Wouldn’t have moved just in time. And this long, military dagger now stabbing his shoulder would have pierced right through the middle of his chest.

Even for him, it’s somewhat difficult to focus on a shot while such a (quite literal) stabbing pain erupts.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (just a bit more XD)
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy! :)

Many things happen all at once, within the few seconds following.

He shoots this piece of shit after all, first thing, not taking any chances on him escaping. Before the body even hits the floor, with the corner of his eye, he sees Leroy bursting up from his corner, presumably fleeing. The dagger then _twists_ in his shoulder, causing the most furious roar erupt from his chest as his hand shoots up and grabs the wrist of the hand holding the blade before he violently pushes back, crushing them both on the wall behind.

The person -male, he assumes, due to the physique- doesn’t scream with the force of the blow. Doesn’t even yelp. There is, however, an unmistakable hitch to their breath, their air supply inevitably getting cut off. Slade takes advantage of the momentary disorientation he’s caused to throw himself forward and pull the blade off his shoulder. He takes a step and spins around, ignoring the pain, fingers tightening around the handle of his gun.

A man it is, indeed, he realizes now that he finally has eyes on him. Less broad than himself, and a bit shorter -though not by much. He gets no scent, but he guesses he’s alpha. Not uncommon for a beta to grow in this height, but still, not the canon (even less common for an omega, even if they’ve got the genes). He’s in full body armor, military type, only… quite obviously, _levels_ above. Material’s shiny -maybe zylon. Mostly black, with several parts of gold yellow. Bulletproof armor vest, with a symbol he’s never seen before posing right in the middle. Various pockets. Gloves. Elbow and forearm, thigh, shin and knee protectors. Full-face mask, helmet with ballistic visor.

Even though he’s admittedly had opponents looking far more dangerous than that, this one’s clearly not to be underestimated. Anyone able to sneak up on him like that is most certainly a threat to be reckoned with.

Slade takes a shot, which the man easily escapes. Figured a try wouldn’t hurt, even though, at such proximity, it’s bound to come down to either blades or hand-to-hand. He’s not given time to draw his sword, which indicates impressive (maybe even somewhat superhuman) speed. The man almost immediately greets him with a punch, proceeding to bring both hands up his neck for leverage, jump up and knee him on the chest. Slade brings both arms up from between them, rises them above and pushes down (his shoulder screams), trapping both of the other’s arms briefly down so that he’s got free access to headbutt him harshly before elbowing him right in the middle of his torso, sending him back and on the ground.

The guy arches his elbows, palms flat at each side of his head, lifts waist and legs and pushes up. He’s back on his feet and lunging at him almost immediately. There’s a little dent at the front of his helmet now -Slade went full force on the headbutting. He blocks the arm coming down to punch his head and plants his fist two times on the other’s sternum. And a third one on his helmet, once more.

The man stumbles back. Slade slides behind him and reaches an arm out, intending to wrap it around his throat. His wrist is grabbed, however, before he can do that. The then bends down slightly, spins around to be able to face him and smashes what Slade has a feeling is either a brick or some concrete part of the damaged ceiling at the side of his head. He ducks the second hit, however, bends and kicks behind his opponent’s knees before standing straight again. The man repeats the elbow-push-up thing, only this time, once he’s up, he grabs Slade’s uninjured shoulder with one hand, hops up to lock legs around his neck and moves backwards, flipping and sending Slade down on his back while he lands on his feet right behind.

_Strong,_ too.

Had the situation been any different, Slade might have actually enjoyed this fight.

He immediately realizes the dagger lies right beside him. He snatches it and twists around, sending it flying towards the man, who makes a flip in the air and avoids it. Annoying, but it does give Slade time to climb back on his feet.

There’s a small break, a moment of silence where they’re just standing there, facing each other. Evaluating. Right when they’re ready to lunge forward, however, the first note of police sirens reaches Slade’s ears, and at the very same moment, the man freezes in place, head slightly turning to the direction of the closest window. One second later, he’s jumping on a desk, then atop of the metal filing cabinets. Grabs at a beam and swings, going higher, reaching out for the hole on the roof.

Slade blazes off at him, obviously, but doesn’t get him. Hates that he’s unable to focus very well, his vision compromised by black spots caused by the growing pain on his shoulder -a wound that should have at least _started_ healing.

He draws a deep, long breath inside. Listens, as the sirens grow louder by the second, trying to decide on whether he should follow this mystery of a man or not, since Leroy’s gone by now, if he’s smart… which he’s proved that he is.

He stares at Perez’s corpse.

Contract’s still on. He’s only managed to get two of his targets.

_No,_ he reminds himself. _One._

His eye moves up to the ajar door leading to the adjoining room before he proceeds to move. On his way there, he picks up the dagger that was used to stab him. Any blade able to cut through his armor is worth studying.

He enters the room and takes an almost lazy look. There’s shattered glass everywhere around. A single piece of rope. Various objects thrown all over the place. And blood on the table. _Dick’s_ blood, he thinks, and fury shoots up to the top of his head once more, burning his brain like acid as he turns to the kid lying down on the floor.

The damage is obvious. Ankle twisted, useless. His whole jaw hanging out of place, blood gushing out of his mouth and nose. He’d been attempting to find a way to stand or crawl, but since the moment Slade stepped into the room, he’s gone utterly, abnormally still. Barely breathing. Merely staring at him. Not even trying to defend himself. Accepting the inevitable, it seems. And still, once Slade draws his sword out, the blond lifts one hand up, signing for him to wait as he gasps for air.

Slade gives him the moment he silently asks for. Maybe out of curiosity. Maybe simply to allow himself the sadistic pleasure of watching yet another one of those involved on what happened to his boy struggle for a while.

He thought he’d got them all back then. Tonight, out of nowhere, he finds out about two more. And… how many more of them could there be out there? That in any way contributed on what happened to Grant?

“… y’r s’n,” the kid utters wetly, “he…”

Slade steers the blade right through his throat, in a slow, smooth motion.

He’s heard enough for one night. Even to him, that’s enough.

The sirens are deafening now. Cops are probably just downstairs. Still, he stays put. Watches. Allows every wet chocking sound, every bit of agony passing through this bloody, wide-eyed stare register to him. Waits, until those eyes are lifeless, emptier than in any picture he’d seen of him. Until no more sounds can be heard, apart from the soft tapping of crimson droplets hitting the floor, forming a pull beneath them. Then, and only then, he retracts. Makes his way back to the main room and just like that man did earlier, reaches for the roof.

There’s no need to spread more havoc in the city tonight.

He needs to reach back to Todd. Find out in which hospital he’s taken his brother. And, in the meantime, he can contemplate on the fact that he’s lost one target, while the contract’s due is in less than forty-eight hours. A target that not only is aware of the fact that someone’s coming for him, but also knows exactly who that someone is. _And_ who hired him, which means that his own client, who just so happens to be non-other than _John Lawrence,_ is in immediate danger.

Oh, joy.

* * *

Jason answers his phone the fourth time Slade calls, and instructs him to head to Blüdhaven General.

Stripping off his weaponry and suit in the back of the van he’s rented for the night is a shockingly painful process. He’s been aware of the fact that he’s been losing substantial amounts of blood during the drive to the hospital. He knows even before he takes a glance at the wound that it’s still bleeding, which… isn’t normal. Not to this amount. It’s already healing, that’s for sure. Otherwise, he’d be possibly running dry by this point. It’s just far, _far_ slower than it should have been. If he’d taken that stab in a vital part, and the healing was that slow…

Slade growls at himself. Turns that thought off. Now is not the time to examine this.

He adds a pad without even cleaning it properly, changes clothes and heads inside. Walks through the glass doors at the entrance. Waits until the elevator reaches the floor he’s heading to. Everything’s slow. Infuriatingly slow.

He finds Jason fast enough, at least. He’s pacing back and forth on the relatively empty aisle (only two more people there, that seem to be together), looking like he’s going to burst, any moment now. Once the kid spots him, he takes one step to his direction, but Slade’s already catching up.

“How’s he?”

He’s pale, stiff. Eyes a little wide, hair a mess. Clothes creased over him. He’s wearing his shirt backwards. Slade doubts he’s even noticed. “Not in immediate danger. One shoulder’s pierced, but no longer bleeding. There weren’t much to do there except clean it up properly and stitch the wound. No damage on any vitals, but… he’s lost blood. They’re looking into it right now. And his leg…”

Jason pauses.

“His leg _what_?” Slade demands.

There’s hesitation. “I don’t know exactly, the x-rays aren’t out yet, but… his ankle’s basically hanging out of place, and his knee…”

The kid stops. Shakes his head, eyes dropping down on the floor. Judging by his expression, Slade doubts they’re talking about something as relatively simple as a dislocation. He grits his teeth and does his best to restrain the furious growl crawling up from his chest. Kid’s upset enough already. “Your story?”

“We were lifting a wooden bookcase on a first-floor apartment -no elevator in the building. The ropes were bad, he fell, landed on some iron bar down on the street that pierced through his shoulder. The bookcase landed on his leg. I brought him here by myself because, well… Bruce Wayne’s sons. We didn’t want to draw any attention by calling an ambulance in the middle of the night.”

Slade nods. Kid’s definitely smart.

“Bruce can’t be here until morning, so I suppose you can—” Jason starts, but abruptly pauses and gasps, eyes focusing on Slade’s shoulder. “Man, you’re—_bleeding!”_

Slade huffs out a grunt and takes a look.

It’s bad. Bad, and even worse _-obvious. _He was deliberately sloppy, hurrying to get up there as soon as possible, and it now shows. The pad’s apparently all-soaked, since it’s now coming out on his shirt as well, spreading enough to be slightly visible even under the jacket.

“It’s fine.”

Jason frowns a bit. “It doesn’t look like it. Aren’t you supposed to be—?”

“Kid,” Slade interrupts, “it’s fine.”

Jason moves his weight from one leg to another, crossing arm over his chest. “No, it isn’t. People will see. They’ll ask. What are we about to tell them, that you fell on the same bar as Dick?” He exhales, slight color appearing on his cheeks as his hand is rising to rake back through his hair. “There’s, uh… a treatment room at the end of the hall. I saw a nurse locking, but I can pick at it, and… you know. If you’d… let me.”

Slade couldn’t care less about how a bunch of nurses and doctors would react, or what would they think of it. It is certain, however, that it would draw more unwanted attention on the boys, which is the last thing anyone needs right now. Adding to that the fact that, maybe, it’s not the worst idea in the world to check by himself how the kid’s been doing, he eventually offers an affirmative nod.

* * *

Jason works carefully, perhaps being a little more thorough than he even needs to. Slade supposes it’s the case when one does such a thing for a person they don’t know very well, but something tells him that the kid’s like that in general. He watches him the entire time, which, apparently, Jason is aware of, since the pink color doesn’t leave his face for a single moment.

“The men. The ones that hurt him,” the kid asks at some point while stitching right above his pec. “You got them down?”

Slade inhales. “One got away,” he admits. Notices the unmistakable spark of anger shinning in Jason’s eyes. “Don’t trouble yourself. I’ll get to him, kid.”

Jason frowns, eyebrows knitting as he keeps working the needle. “Your target, was it… Willow or Garanno?”

Slade knows who those are, having already conducted a search on every person that would supposedly be in that place tonight. He’s always been adamant about not giving out even the smallest of details or clues on what exactly any of his contracts is about (not even post closure), but giving confirmation over what it’s _not_ about is not an issue. Especially not with the kid. He assumes Jason’s smart enough not to ask for details after all. “Neither.”

Jason actually looks a bit surprised. “Oh.”

He supposes it was a fair enough guess; Willow and Garanno were certainly the celebrities of the scum gathering. “Why would you assume that?”

Jason briefly glances up. “Dick’s case.”

Slade shifts a bit, jaw clenching. “What was it about?”

The kid looks like debating with himself for a moment, before he apparently decides that they’ve come way too far for that right now. “This guy, Willow? Deputy mayor? Garanno, the mob boss, is his brother in law. Dude’s basically in the business up to the neck, and he’s at odds with Rena Wilkes -the actual mayor. They wanted to hire Scorpio for a series of terrorist attacks in the city. They have serious connections inside the Force, too. Would make sure no officers were anywhere near the incidents in time. Stage a couple of mishandlings. They were looking to cause snap election. Willow would run for it, and, well… win it. Who would vote for Wilkes again after witnessing a nicely staged manifestation of her supposed incapability to handle things?”

Even if the woman somehow got reelected, he supposes a magical cook of the votes would somehow occur. Not surprising. Blüdhaven’s always been known as a massive pit of filth. Far less classy than Gotham, too. The fact that such a rathole gets to have Dick looking out for it is frankly insane. Tragicomic, really. Kid’s just too good for it. They don’t deserve him. But then again, there can’t be many people in the world worthy of having Dick Grayson watching over them after all.

Yes. He does shamelessly pride himself on that.

“Dick’s been working on this case for like, a month,” Jason says quietly.

Slade’s fingers tighten at the edge of the stretcher. Brushing aside the tightness in his chest has proved to be an impossible task since Perez started talking. Hearing how hard the kid must have worked on this, only for things to eventually end up in a such massive fiasco, with at least one of the people directly involved dead (which means no witnesses, hence no actual proof for any court of law) only makes the squeeze worse.

Kid’s got nothing to prove any claim now.

He gathers himself, getting his fingers to relax, since destroying the stretcher really isn’t going to fix anything. Not even serve into getting some of his frustration out. Instead, Slade directs his attention back to the kid. “You were helping, I take it?”

Jason blushes more, but doesn’t look up from his work. “I didn’t do anything,” he says, perhaps a little too abruptly. “Mostly just desk work.”

As if it’s something minor. Unimportant.

Dick’s mentioned his brother’s been tenaciously denying getting out on the field. Not due to lack of good physical condition, it’s safe to assume. Kid looks good enough on that part. He’s put most of his regular weight back on, as far as Slade can tell. He can even detect a hint of abs under the loose shirt, which means he’s been working out (hesitantly, perhaps, but still) for at least some time now. Some muscles are still yet to return, but he’s mostly back in shape. What’s happening inside him is the real deal here.

He’s doubting himself. Uncertain. Confused. Afraid. Still distressed. And how could anyone blame him for that.

The kid finishes and, as he puts everything aside and reaches for a pad, Slade gets a glimpse of the scar marring the left side of his neck, just below his ear. The vicious mark the teeth that piece of filth branded him with. It’s fainted as much as it ever would by now, but it’s still visible. Painfully, outrageously present. Could never go unnoticed.

Slade feels the hair at the back of his neck raising as that all-too-familiar fury drips back into his chest. It’s not even directly headed to the monster that doomed the boy to wear the reminder of everything that’s been done to him on his skin. Look at it, every time he’s facing a mirror. No. Right now, all spite falls upon the Bat. Well, part spite, part surprise. It’s truly worth of wonder how come Wayne hasn’t attended to that so far. Slade would have expected the man would have done anything in his power to take at least that weight off his son’s shoulders. It’s not like he doesn’t have the means to make that happen. Hell, even Grayson could have worked that out. The girl, Raven, could make that thing go away in an instant. And he’s absolutely certain that at least Dick would have done anything in his power to relieve his brother any way he could.

It’s what he would have done himself, at least. Wouldn’t have stopped in anything until he’d made everything disappear, if Grant…

“Thank you.”

It’s low. Small. Quiet. The way he says it.

Once Slade meets his eyes, the kid’s staring back at him like he’s afraid he’s going to snap for some reason. “For… you know. I didn’t—” He swallows. Briefly shuts his eyes, collecting himself. Inhales. “Didn’t get the chance to tell you.”

Slade allows silence to linger between them for a second, before he hums thoughtfully. Doesn’t fight the urge to lift his right hand and wrap his fingers around the back of the kid’s neck, lightly pulling him closer. He rubs his thumb along the flank in small circles, brushing over the scar a bit, but still, careful enough to keep the touch away from Jason’s scent gland and suddenly alarm the kid, sending him deeper into tension than he already is.

Jason gasps a bit, further blushing, but doesn’t make any move to indicate he wants to break free from contact. As a matter of fact, if Slade can claim he knows the first thing about body language, the kid seems to be trying to keep himself from leaning into the touch. His scent also shifts; softens. Goes sweeter in Slade’s nostrils.

He finds himself to be surprisingly fond of the idea that his presence registers as comforting to the kid.

“How are you holding up?” he calmly asks.

Jason swallows again. “Good. Fine. I—”

He falters. Pauses. Slade gets enough time to examine every big and small thing in those expressive eyes. “I don’t know,” the kid’s voice eventually creaks a bit.

Slade pulls a rumble. Remembering how well the kid reacted to that the previous time, it comes out as very spontaneous, very sincere, and the outcome doesn’t seem to be any less effective than the previous time, even though the kid’s much more reserved this time, being out of immediate distress. He simply sighs quietly at the sound, shifting a bit closer.

“It will pass,” he says, not only because he has to, but also because he believes it.

Jason shakes his head a bit. In doubt. Fails to maintain eye contact any longer, and looks down at his shoes. “I don’t know,” he repeats.

Slade lightly guides his face up again, eyes to his own. “I do,” he firmly states. “You did good tonight, kid. Maybe you weren’t confident, maybe you weren’t ready, but in the end, did this stop you? Did you _let it_ stop you? Your brother’s alive because of you.”

Jason’s stare is almost blank. “Everything’s different. **_I_** am different.”

Slade’s eye narrows. “Kid, you’ll never be the same again. Forget about that. It doesn’t mean you won’t be whole, though. We all change, one way or another. You can live with it. And every time you feel you can’t, dwell on the thought that, once upon a time, you came back from the dead… and then you survived _this. _There isn’t much that can bring you down anymore.”

Jason blinks, and Slade slowly_ -reluctantly- _pulls his hand away. “You’re wearing your shirt backwards,” he points out as he reaches for his own.

The kid winces. “I know, dammit,” he growls. “I just put on whatever. I saw it once I got in the elevator.”

Slade feels the corners of his mouth slightly curling up into the harbinger of a smirk.

**Author's Note:**

> My Tumblr: [Lady Paper Writerson's](https://ladypaperwriterson.tumblr.com/)


End file.
